


The Great Music War of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital

by Amberstarry



Series: House M.D. [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Banter, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Music, Musical References, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-24 07:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13806351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberstarry/pseuds/Amberstarry
Summary: Financial reports are never enjoyable, and House has a creative way of avoiding them. However, his little stint ends up being the catalyst for a musical war with Wilson the likes of which Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital has never before heard.





	The Great Music War of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> This fic heavily references music and may be difficult to understand if you have not heard the songs that are referred to. To combat this, I have provided a comprehensive list of the songs used in this fic - both those that are plot devices and ones that are simply mentioned within the text in the notes at the bottom of this fic. 
> 
> Feel free to peruse the list at your leisure!

Wilson sat at his desk, diligently compiling the oncology department’s financial records. Cuddy had accosted him earlier in the day, demanding he have them ready for her to present at the annual budget meeting the next morning. The oncology ward wasn’t exactly quiet at the moment, and financial reports didn’t top the list of things he’d like to be doing, but work was called work for a reason and he couldn’t really refuse. So he begrudgingly assured her that she would have them by the deadline and cordoned off the rest of his afternoon for mind-numbing paperwork. At present he had only been at it for half an hour, but the numbers were already starting to blur together in front of his eyes. He pressed on, knowing that if he stopped now he’d only end up regretting it later.

The minutes ticked by, and as time passed he seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole of figures and statistics laid out before him. Two hours in and his brain was so full of useless price tags that he literally jumped in his seat when the sound of a guitar streamed in from his balcony. He looked over at the glass sliding door and spotted House standing outside, strumming his acoustic guitar to the tune of a song that sounded familiar, but which Wilson’s foggy mind couldn’t quite pinpoint. Before he could ask it’s name, House opened his mouth and started singing lyrics in an ear-splittingly bad falsetto, causing Wilson to reflexively cover his ears and shield himself from the torture.  
  
“ _Jimmy! It’s me your Greggy, I’ve come home. I’m so cold, let me in through your window!_ ” House wailed, ignoring Wilson’s clear discomfort.

Wilson scrunched his eyes shut, cringing heavily. “Argh, stop! Please, you’re making my ears bleed,” he shouted, knowing that his request would most likely fall on (literally) deaf ears.  
  
To his relief House actually cooperated for once and ceased his singing. When Wilson opened his eyes again House had lowered the guitar and was sliding the door open to come inside. He shuffled in, immediately going for the couch, and flopped down as he put his guitar aside. Wilson looked at him wearily and crossed his arms on his desk. “So are you going to explain why you were outside my office screeching like a harpy, or are we just going to pretend that never happened?”

House made a face at him. “I was not screeching like a harpy. I was singing _Wuthering Heights_ by the ever eclectic Kate Bush, thank you very much.” Wilson stared at him blankly. “With a few lyrical alterations, of course,” he quickly added for further clarification.

Well that answered the question of which song it was. Wilson rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. He couldn’t say he was that upset, whatever House was up to was providing a welcome distraction from the dreaded financial reports he had been wading through. A part of him cursed his own insubordination but also conceded that he was still a notch above his friend. At least he had been _attempting_ to fulfill Cuddy’s demands. There was a good chance House had gotten the same memo from her for the diagnostics department, and was evidently avoiding the work entirely. It was amazing how blase he could be about blatantly disregarding his work. Being completely void of a conscience must have been nice, Wilson mused. “Okay, why were you singing _Wuthering Heights_ outside my window then?”

“Truthfully?” House crossed his good leg over his bad one. “I’m bored and I thought it would be fun to piss you off.”

Wilson blinked. “You’re avoiding your financial reports,” he said by way of explanation, effectively answering his own question. He didn’t know why he bothered asking in the first place, it’s not like House had ever given him a straight answer in the past.

“That too,” House concurred.  

The oncologist pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. “While I’m sure pissing me off is infinitely amusing to you, there are other ways to procrastinate. Preferably you could find one that doesn’t involve blowing out my eardrums.”

A wicked grin flashed over House’s face and he nodded down to the guitar. “You think that was bad? You ain’t seen nothing, Jimmy.”

That sounded like a challenge, although Wilson wasn’t exactly sure what House meant. He studied his friend’s expression for a hint of what might have been going on inside that insane mind of his, but couldn’t glean any new information. Eventually he gave up and let himself be dragged into House’s trap. “Are you threatening me?”

House scoffed and waved a hand at Wilson dismissively. “Threaten? You? Of course not! I’m just letting you know that there’s worse things than Kate Bush’s high-pitched squealing.”

“Like what,” Wilson prompted, knowing he would have been better off ending the conversation right then and there for the sake of his own sanity.

“Like waiting until the opportune time to blast _Leave a Tender Moment Alone_ on repeat outside your window,” House offered, his eyes daring Wilson to throw a witty retort back at him.

Wilson smirked and nodded. “Very funny. But I think I could do one better.”

“Oh?” House looked at him expectantly.  
  
“I could sing _One_ from _A Chorus Line_ in the shower every morning when you’re trying to sleep.” Wilson put his hands behind his head, pleased with himself.

House frowned. “That’s just vindictive.”

“You’re the one that started this,” Wilson reminded him.  
  
“And you’re the one that’s exacerbating it,” House rebutted.

Wilson sighed and let his head fall back. “How do I always end up being the bad guy?”

House watched him passively from his spot on the couch. “Because I’m smarter, and an asshole. Blaming other people is something we assholes tend to do.”

Wilson looked up and sat forward in his chair. “You know what? If you’re going to try and put this on me, I’m putting it right back on you.”

“What are you saying?” House asked, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“I’m saying that when you least expect it, your ringtone is going to magically change to _Barbie Girl_ ,” Wilson replied.

House arched an eyebrow and smirked. “You really mean that?”

“You bet I do,” Wilson said, resting his elbows on the desk. Maybe the financial reports had gotten to him, but for once playing House’s game actually sounded appealing, at least in the sense that if he was clever enough about it he could dole out some serious humiliation on the diagnostician.

House picked up his guitar, placed it in his lap and smirked. “Then you realise this means war.” He strummed a chord for dramatic effect. 

“Get your guns,” Wilson returned, leaning forward with a mischievous grin.

The guitar was placed back on the ground as House hoisted himself up into a standing position. Cautiously, he bent down to retrieve the instrument and shot Wilson a look that screamed ‘you’re so screwed’. He began limping his way to the door that lead out into the corridor, proclaiming “let the games begin!” over his shoulder as he made his exit.

Wilson smiled and then groaned, remembering the financial reports he now had to go back to. He dropped his head into his right hand and picked up his pen with the left. This was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

 Chase, Cameron and Foreman all shuffled out the door, grumbling to themselves about the plethora of tests House had saddled them with - a punishment for all three of them being unable to reach the same conclusion he had come to within the first five minutes of their differential. They had given many possible diagnoses, but House had knocked them down one by one, insisting that the correct diagnosis was simple and that they were a bunch of morons. It had taken approximately forty-five minutes for him to get sick of their combined incompetency before he declared an end to their meeting and sent them away to do blood cultures, a tox screen, a CT scan and a lumbar puncture “just to be safe”.

While the three doctors were occupied with their load of tests, House was left alone to finally start on the financial reports Cuddy had been hounding him over for the last two days. He thought he could hide from her until the deadline had passed, thereby avoiding the monotonous pile of paperwork, but somehow she found him at every turn, threatening to double his clinic hours if he didn’t succumb to her demands. Their last encounter which had involved her screaming at him in the clinic to do his job, while citing the fact that Wilson - that goody-two-shoes son of a bitch - had already finished and submitted his reports, was the point in which he realised he wouldn’t be getting out of this particular job. So as soon as his underlings had disappeared down the corridor, he turned away from the whiteboard and limped over to his office, wincing with every step he took. When he reached his desk he flopped down in his chair and pulled out his trusty bottle of vicodin, popping the lid and depositing two into his hand. He put the bottle on his desk and quickly dry-swallowed the pills before bending down and rummaging through his files to find the necessary documents to compile.

He was sifting through case reports when the sound of music began emanating from somewhere behind him. He paused, sitting back up and looking over his shoulder to try and find the source of the music, but he couldn’t see it from his position. Reluctantly, he pushed his chair out and stood, walking over to the corner of his office were his TV and filing cabinet were located. The sound was too clear so he knew whatever was producing the music wasn’t inside the cabinet, but somewhere outside of it. He gazed down at the television, compositing a mental list of places the device could have been hidden, and after a few moments slid the television forward, revealing a small transistor radio that had been wedged behind it. He picked it up and brought the radio closer to his ear, taking in exactly what was playing. The unrefined edge of late 90’s alternative rock rang out from the small speaker and House recognised the song as being by _The Dandy Warhols_. He lowered the radio just as his office door swung open and Wilson came trotting in, holding a remote and singing along smugly:

“ _I never thought you'd be a junkie because Vicodin is so passe. But today, if you think that I don't know about depression and emotional pain, you're insane, or you're a fool who hasn't paid attention to a word that I say. In a way, I can't help but feel responsible, I always knew that you were insane with your pain, but I never thought you'd be a junkie because Vicodin is so passe_ ,” he crooned, stopping in front of House’s desk looking much too happy with himself.

House threw the radio onto the stack of papers lining his desk as Wilson pressed a button on the remote to pause the music. He walked back to his chair and fell into it, all the while staring at Wilson, completely unimpressed. “If you think that’s going to get to me, you don’t know me very well,” he said, picking up his bottle of vicodin and popping another two pills just to prove his point.

Wilson shrugged and sat down in one of the consultation chairs. “I thought I’d try to get a message across,” he said, his bravado slowly melting away.

House glared at him. “Blow me.”

“ _Not if you were the last junkie on earth_ ,” Wilson rebuffed.

The transistor radio sat between them, now silent but still taunting in its presence. House glanced down at it discontentedly. “You’re not being clever,” he informed, “just obnoxious.”

Wilson nodded. “I’m okay with that.”

House went back to glowering and jutted his chin out towards the door. “Get out of my office.”

“Oh, did I hurt your feelings,” Wilson asked mockingly, cocking his head to the side.

“I have to do my financial reports,” House explained, picking up his oversized tennis ball. “Cuddy won’t leave me alone.”

Wilson shook his head in expasteration. “You still haven’t done them?”

House looked up at him. “That surprises you?”

“No, not really,” he admitted.

The diagnostician smirked and began rolling his ball around in his hands. “If you hadn’t gotten yours in on the first day, maybe she wouldn’t be cracking a hissy about mine being late.”

Wilson sat back and angled his head upwards, looking off in thought at some unspecified point in the room. “So let me get this straight,” he began, “you’re blaming Cuddy getting angry at you for not doing your job on the basis that I’ve done mine?”

“It would appear that way, yes,” House answered flippantly.

Wilson shot House a bemused look and stood up, bending over to retrieve his radio from the desk. “Do your reports,” he said as he turned to leave the office.  
  
“Yes mom,” House called back as he watched Wilson’s retreating form. He hadn’t been completely certain that Wilson was serious the other day, but this little stunt had confirmed his willingness to participate in their game. With a smile House sunk down in his chair, his mind immediately beginning to concoct the revenge he was going to subject on the poor bastard. Oh yes, this was going to be _fun_.

 

* * *

 

Wilson put the file he was carrying on the bench of the nurses station which stood in the middle of the hospital foyer. He scribbled a note inside of it to up the patient’s chemotherapy sessions before snapping it shut and handing it to the nurse who was manning reception. An air of positivity hung in the atmosphere; the morning had been going well so far, and for once he was in good spirits. He turned away from the station feeling content with his day’s work, and came face to face with Nurse Doherty who smiled up at him warmly.  
  
“Doctor Wilson, I was just talking to Nurse Becklan about how great the oncology fundraiser we ran the other day was. The kids were so happy afterwards, it really warms the heart,” she said, beaming with happiness.  
  
Another doctor came up to the station and Wilson side-stepped to get out of his way. “Yeah, it went really well. If Cuddy will give me permission I’m hoping to schedule a few more throughout the year.”  
  
Nurse Doherty nodded enthusiastically, her long red hair bobbing with the motion. “The proceeds would really help the research department.”

“That’s the plan,” Wilson said, grinning from ear-to-ear. He didn’t want to toot his own horn but he’d been particularly proud of the organisation for that fundraiser. It had gone off without a hitch, which was a miracle in and of itself, and the staggering amount of donations that came rolling in for the oncology ward was just a bonus.

Nurse Doherty’s already stunningly bright blue eyes lit up, her demeanour indicating she was falling victim to Wilson’s charm, even if he was inadvertently puttin it on. She opened her mouth to speak again, but was cut off by an announcement being made over the hospital’s PA system.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to dedicate this one to Dr. James Wilson, head of oncology,” an all too familiar voice echoed through the large, open space.

Wilson looked up at the speakers attached to the wall on the second level. “Oh no,” he groaned as Nurse Doherty followed his eyeline.

“Here’s to you, buddy,” House’s voice continued, followed by the clear rhythmic tones of _Oh, Pretty Woman._

All heads turned to Wilson, who shrunk into himself in embarrassment. He looked at Nurse Doherty and shot her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he said, rushing over to the elevators before she had time to respond. As he walked he could feel the eyes of every staff member boring into his back and mentally cursed House with all of the derogatory epithets he could think of. It was just his luck that the elevator doors happened to be closing as he reached them, coming together before he could squeeze his way through. He blinked at solid steel for a second, collecting himself, before spinning on his heel and heading towards the fire escape stairs instead. All the while still acutely aware of the stares being directed his way. His pace was brisk and he made it into the stairwell in record time, but somehow the bass from the tinny speakers followed him, up several flights of stairs, as he made his way to the fifth floor. Mercifully, by the time he reached the fourth floor the music was no longer audible.

When he finally got to his office he slammed the door shut and locked it for good measure. He headed to the door that opened out onto the balcony and made sure the latch on that was locked as well. Maybe if nobody saw him for the rest of the day the whole incident would be forgotten. He shook his head. Who was he kidding? He would never live this down. Brown from endocrinology was going to have a field day with it. With a sigh, Wilson sat down on the couch and wondered how exactly he was going to do the rest of the day’s work without leaving his office. Whatever solution he came up with one thing was certain - House was going to pay.

 

* * *

 

Foreman picked up the whiteboard marker and wrote small-cell carcinoma on the board as Chase paced the conference room with his hand pressed to his chin in thought. At the same time, Cameron and Wilson sat at the table reading through the patient’s file, discussing possible strategies for treatment. The three doctors had called the oncologist in for a consult when they realised the most likely cause of the patient's symptoms was a tumour, and upon examination of the patient’s records Wilson had sadly agreed that there was a good chance it was a very aggressive lung cancer. It was always hard when diagnosing a potentially terminal case, but the thing that had really put Wilson out wasn’t the unfortunate prognosis but the noticeable absenteeism of the team’s leader upon his arrival for their consultation. According to the other three House hadn’t been seen at all that morning, so they had carried on without him, as they were prone to do during his unpredictable absences. It wasn’t so much of a shock as it was annoying to be helping the diagnostics team when they had no clear direction. With House AWOL that left Wilson as the senior physician, and therefore the one with the most experience. Although it had not explicitly been stated, there was a certain undercurrent of expectation on him because of that. It was clear the three younger doctors were latching onto him for some sort of guidance and as much as he wanted to help them, this was not Wilson’s forte. House rolled out commands, whereas Wilson preferred to encourage less experienced doctors to come to their own conclusions without his opinions superseding theirs. He believed that was the best way to learn, and that was where the problem laid. Since Cameron, Chase and Foreman were so used to having answers thrown at them first and figuring out how they were obtained second, they weren’t very receptive to Wilson’s approach and he found himself unsuccessfully trying to school a team that wasn’t even his as they quabbled over what step to take next.  

It was almost a relief when the door slammed open and House came limping in. He walked agonizingly slowly, grimacing with every movement. It was immediately obvious he was having a flare up. When he was a few steps into the room he stopped and clutched his leg, hissing in pain. Cameron dropped her pen and leapt from her seat, rushing over to him to put her hands under his arm for support, but before she could get a decent grip House pushed her away.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, shooing her back to where she had come from. He passed her as she watched on bewilderedly, continuing to the conference table where he dropped into the closest chair he could find. When he was seated he finally looked up, surveying the room for the first time since he had entered, and noted the atypical addition to his team. “Since our friendly neighbourhood oncologist is here, I’m guessing that you think the patient has cancer,” he said, ignoring the stares from all four doctors.

“Uh, yeah. We think it’s small-cell carcinoma,” Chase replied, his expression teetering somewhere between concern and indifference.

House glared at him. “I can see that. It’s on the whiteboard, dumbass.” He winced again and reached a hand down to massage his thigh. “It’s not cancer.”

Wilson threw the patient’s file at him and pointed at the whiteboard. “It fits the symptoms and I’ve already looked over the MRI’s and bloodwork. He has small-cell carcinoma.”

“Growths on the lungs can be many things,” House rebutted, ignoring the file. “If it was small-cell carcinoma this guy would have been handed to you as soon as he walked into the emergency room. There’s obviously something else you’re not seeing, which is why he was brought to us.”

“The rest of your team agrees with me,” Wilson said, now wondering if having House there was actually worth it after all.

“Blacky, Wonder Girl and Skippy The Bush Kangaroo will follow the most dominant force in the room. The only reason they’re in agreement with you is because I wasn’t here to rain on your parade earlier,” House said, his hand still working up and down his leg.

Foreman rolled his eyes and leaned against the whiteboard. “We’re here you know.”

“Do you hear that?” House asked Wilson. “There’s an annoying sound coming from over near the whiteboard.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I think it’s saying it should run the bloodwork again.”

“We already ran it twice,” Cameron said, taking her glasses off. “We’ve looked everything through multiple times.”

House stared at her blankly. “Well, do it all again.”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. “House, it’s cancer.”

“Cancer is boring,” House bit back.

“Just because it’s boring doesn’t make it any less feasible as a diagnosis,” Wilson returned. “You have the facts right in front of you, if you’d bother to look at them.”

“It’s not cancer,” House repeated.

The two doctors began to stare each other down. Wilson frustrated that House couldn’t see reason, and House steadfast in his insistence that Wilson was wrong, despite his lack of evidence to support that claim. Their eyes locked and there was complete silence for a few moments before Chase interrupted their standoff.

“So what exactly should we be doing,” he asked, completely impassive.

Before House could answer a vibration in his pocket alerted him that his pager was going off. He went to stick his hand in his pocket and retrieve it, but as he moved music started playing. His hand paused midair and he cocked his head to the side as the lyrics “ _don’t let yourself go. ‘Cause everybody cries, and everybody hurts sometimes_ ,” reverberated through his jeans and to the ears of everyone in the room.

Foreman snickered and pointed at House’s pants. “Are you gonna get that?”

The diagnostician shot him a sneer before pulling out his pager and glancing at it. With an eye-roll he switched it off and stuffed it back in its place between his vicodin bottle and loose change. Cameron, Chase and Foreman all watched him expectantly, waiting for him to jump up and leave the room. Instead, he remained seated, looking vaguely irritated.

“Shouldn’t you go,” Cameron ventured, her concern for the patient outweighing her fear of asking.

“No,” House answered, falling silent again without further explanation.

“I didn’t know you liked R.E.M,” Foreman remarked, barely able to hide his grin. House didn’t acknowledge him and silence fell back over the room.

“If the nurses paged you, something must be wrong with the patient,” Cameron insisted, her voice heightening with worry.

House sighed and hung his head back. “The patient is fine,” he said, ignoring Cameron’s obvious distress.

“But the nurses-”

“ _He_ paged me, you idiot,” House snapped, nodding in Wilson’s direction. All heads turned to look at the oncologist who simply smiled and shrugged.

Cameron straightened her back, looking completely mystified as to why Wilson would page House when they were in the same room together. Chase and Foreman shared a perplexed glance at each other, equally nonplussed.

Wilson adjusted himself in his chair and began humming the tune to _Everybody Hurts_ , looking off nonchalantly in an effort to appear unaware of House’s eyes burning holes into him.

After a few moments House picked up a pen and threw it across the table, hitting Wilson in the shoulder. “Stop it!”

“You shouldn’t throw things,” Cameron admonished, despite her ongoing confusion.

“It’s okay,” Wilson said before House could reply. “He’s having a bad pain day so he’s a bit touchy.” He turned to House. “I understand and I forgive you. Everybody hurts sometimes.”

“Would you shut up,” House asked inexplicably calmly. Before Wilson could answer he turned to his team. “Go and run the bloodwork again and do an ultrasound of the lungs.” He paused and then waved his hand at them. “ _Now_.”

Chase, Foreman and Cameron shared glances at each other but didn’t argue. They collected their things and left the two older doctors alone together. Once they were gone House pulled out his bottle of vicodin and popped two while Wilson looked on passively.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence House spoke again. “I didn’t know you were an exhibitionist.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“Paging me under the table while other people are in the room, it’s just so kinky,” House explained facetiously.  
  
The oncologist snorted. “Well you know me, I _am_ a slut.”

House’s expression remained neutral. “This isn’t over.”

Wilson simply smirked and picked up his humming where he had left off.

 

* * *

 

Wilson was in the pediatrics section of the oncology ward when his pager went off. He had been reading to the children and was quite enjoying himself - the ease of sitting back and recounting fantastical tales to young minds was a welcome break from his usual routine. So it was with great disappointment that he had to abruptly end their storytime in order to run off for some emergency. He noted when he read the text on the small pager screen that it was Cuddy, which made it all the more important that he got his ass moving as soon as possible. With some regretful goodbyes he left the reading session, letting the children play amongst themselves under the supervision of the nurses as he began his journey down to Cuddy’s office.

It didn’t take long for him to get to the ground floor and within a few minutes he was standing in front of her door, rapping on it lightly for permission to enter. After a moment he heard a faint “come in,” from behind the glass and entered the room. Cuddy was sitting at her desk with a stack of paperwork piled up to head height next to her. She was furiously scribbling notes onto one of the many documents splayed around her as Wilson approached the desk, resting his hands on his hips expectantly.

She glanced up and upon seeing who had come to talk to her went back to the form she was filling in. “Hi Wilson, can you make this quick? I’m kind of busy here.”

Wilson arched an eyebrow and shifted his weight onto his other leg. “You paged me.”

Cuddy shook her head without looking up. “You must have read the number wrong. It wasn’t me.”

With a huff Wilson pulled out his pager and shoved it under Cuddy’s nose. “That’s your number. If you didn’t page me, who did?”

Cuddy paused her writing and slowly looked up at Wilson. As their eyes met they seemed to come to the same realisation at the same time, with both of them uttering “House,” in unison.

“Why would he send me to you,” Wilson wondered aloud as he slipped his pager back into the pocket of his lab coat. “It’s not like I’m trying to avoid you at the moment.”

“I have no idea,” Cuddy said, looking and sounding utterly exhausted. “But I really don’t have time to delve into House’s psyche right now.”

Wilson nodded in understanding. “Sorry about this. I’ll leave now.” He was about to head out when Cuddy’s computer monitor lit up and _Should I Stay or Should I Go_ began blaring from the speakers. She looked over at her computer and then at Wilson who pursed his lips together in embarrassment.

“He hacked into my computer?” She asked, although it came off as more of a statement.

“I had no part in this,” Wilson shouted over the music.

Cuddy turned the volume down on her computer and sighed. “Tell House if he wants to play games with you he can keep them as far away from me as possible.”

Wilson eyed the computer as music continued to fill the room. “I’ll make sure he gets the memo.”

Cuddy nodded. “Good. Now, get out of my office,” she said, once again resuming her paperwork.

With an exasperated shake of his head, Wilson followed Cuddy’s orders and left her alone with _The Clash_ now acting as background noise to her insane workload. This was honestly starting to get ridiculous and he was regretting his decision of indulging House’s antics, but he was also too prideful to let House get the last laugh. So Wilson sucked it up and continued back upstairs, mentally planning his next move.

 

* * *

 

House lazily punched a code into the vending machine and watched as the bag of chips he had selected moved slowly forward before being deposited into the receptacle below. With some effort he bent down to retrieve his winnings before turning away and heading towards the oncology lounge. Usually he would go to his office to chow down on his trans-fat latent snack, but Wilson had called him earlier and invited him to lunch. Never one to pass up the opportunity for stimulating conversation, House had happily taken him up on the offer which is why he was now walking towards their chosen meeting place. They didn’t often go to the oncology lounge but there was a very cushy couch in there so he wasn’t complaining. Any excuse for a meal and a nap afterwards was fine by him.

It wasn’t long before House was approaching the lounge, and as he came closer he noticed what sounded like music coming from inside. He smirked to himself knowingly. Of course Wilson was using this as a ploy for their little war. Well, whatever he was up to he wasn't going to win. House would never play into his hands; he’d be ready for whatever was waiting in the lounge to deprive Wilson of that satisfaction.

When he entered his ears were immediately hit with the horrendous warbling of Tom Jones as the end of _What’s New Pussycat_ played from the television secured to the far wall. House glanced over at it and then focused his attention on the kitchenette where Wilson was standing, tossing the salad he had packed that morning for himself. He looked up as House walked towards the refrigerator to rifle through its contents, the telltale thump of his cane having alerted Wilson that his friend had arrived .

“You have a horrible taste in music,” House remarked as he opened the fridge to see what goodies he could steal.

Wilson glanced at him absentmindedly and continued tossing the dressing through his salad. “I didn’t do this. Something is wrong with the TV.”

The song ended and then began again from the top. House paused and straightened himself up, looking over his shoulder. “Did the song just start again?”

“I just told you, there’s something wrong with the television. It’s been playing _What’s New Pussycat_ on a loop since I arrived,” Wilson said, picking up his salad and heading over to the couch.

House turned back to the fridge and pulled out a sandwich that belonged to somebody named Dr. Cheng before closing the door and joining Wilson. “You don’t really expect me to believe this isn’t part of your evil master plan?” He asked, ripping the wrap off his sandwich.

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” Wilson replied, stuffing a forkful of lettuce into his mouth.

The music continued playing in the background, each second becoming increasingly grating as the phrase ‘ _what’s new pussycat_ ’ endlessly repeated itself. Yet as irritating as it was, both doctors kept their poker faces, neither willing to acknowledge that anything was amiss.

“Did you enjoy your little field trip the other day,” House prompted as he bit into his contraband.

Wilson paused and turned to face him. “Yeah, about that. Bringing Cuddy into this is just playing dirty.”

House swallowed his bite and smirked. “It’s no fun unless you get a little down and dirty.”

“Just leave her out of it, otherwise we’ll both lose our jobs,” Wilson said, going back to his salad.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Model Employee.” House reached over and picked a cube of cheese out of Wilson’s tupperware container.

Wilson frowned and put his half-finished salad on the coffee table in front of them. “You don’t even like salad,” he said, watching as House chewed his cheese.

“No, but I do find the look you give me every time I steal your food irresistible,” House countered.

This conversation seemed to be going nowhere, so Wilson took it upon himself to steer it back in the direction he preferred. Sitting back into the couch he nodded over to the television which was still crooning out _What’s New Pussycat_. “So, what do you think of Tom Jones?”

House glanced at the television but his expression remained stoic. “He’s fine,” he replied, refusing to take the bait.

Wilson persisted. “This isn’t driving you insane?” He pressed, knowing that it definitely was but that the diagnostician was feigning indifference to circumvent him.

House shrugged. “Nope.”

There wasn’t much Wilson could say to that, so he nodded and tapped his knee absently. “Yeah, I don’t mind it either.” This had not gone as expected.

The rest of the luncheon went on in a similar fashion, with both doctors idly chit-chatting about mundanities as Tom Jones continued his tirade of unbelievably annoying singing in the background. In total they spent half an hour in the oncology lounge before Wilson couldn’t take it anymore and made up an excuse about having an appointment with a patient so he could leave. House watched him go wordlessly, smirking to himself at the small victory; while also silently thanking every deity he didn’t believe in that he could finally escape the madness himself.

 

* * *

 

There was a flurry of activity as the doctors and nurses milled around the operating table, passing instruments and relaying stats on the patient's vitals. Wilson stood at the patient’s chest, observing the heart surgeon as he carefully worked at extracting the cancerous tumour that had grown around the patient’s aorta. It was an extremely delicate operation and it required total concentration from both the surgeon operating and Wilson, who was tasked with analysing the tumour as soon as it was excised to determine the exact nature of its pathology.

So far all had been going well and the patient had remained stable, but that reassurance was short lived. As the heart surgeon made a cut into the arterial wall the patient's oxygen stats plummeted and the machines began beeping frantically. The surgeon pulled back and Wilson reached for an intubation tube.

“Respiratory arrest,” he shouted, gesturing for one of the nurse's to commence CPR while he got ready to intubate and the throat surgeon who was on standby prepared to create a hole in the patient's neck for an emergency tracheostomy to be inserted.

The staff in the O.R. began running around, doing everything they could to ensure the patient’s survival. There was so much commotion most of the surgeons and nurses didn't notice when _Stayin’ Alive_ started blasting from the speakers reserved for questions from the viewing gallery.

Wilson, however, noticed immediately and looked up to see House standing in the gallery, smirking sinisterly as he held his phone up to the intercom.

They shared a brief bout of eye contact before Wilson frowned, although it was impossible to see it under his mask, and turned back to the patient with the intubation tube in hand. Above him House’s expression remained fixed in an amused smirk as he let the music fill the operating room while the doctors, nurses and Wilson attempted to clear the patient’s airways.

 

* * *

 

House sighed and leaned back in his desk chair. “Remind me why I’m here again.”

Foreman glanced at him and went back to observing the monitor. “Cuddy ordered you to be present for at least one of the patient’s tests,” he supplied helpfully, typing in a command on the keyboard.

“MRI’s are so boring,” House drawled, letting his head fall back lethargically.

“We’re not here to have fun,” Foreman responded, giving House a stern look. It had been a long day and neither of them would have chosen to hole themselves up together in the tiny MRI observation room, but Cuddy had insisted that House at least pretend to be interested in the welfare of their patient. Needless to say, his childish whining wasn’t making the experience easier for anybody involved.

The screens in front of them showed the sliced scans of the patient’s brain as they loaded one by one. So far everything looked clear and that was not particularly helpful since they were running out of ideas as to what the patient was suffering from.

With a sigh Foreman crossed his arms over his chest and pursed his lips. “This is ridiculous, we’ve gone through everything and nothing fits. How can a guy be having seizures, blood clots and tachycardia without a cause?”  
  
House shrugged and started trying to hit the light on the ceiling with his cane. “Beats me.”

Before Foreman could say anything else a whisper of “ _let the bodies hit the floor_ ,” wafted through the room. He and House shared a look of confusion with each other before sitting forward and searching the desk for the source of the sound. As they looked the whisper repeated itself several times, almost taunting them with its elusiveness. After a moment or so of shuffling papers around Foreman moved a file out of the way and found a walkie talkie underneath. He picked it up and eyed it questioningly but was interrupted by House snatching it away from him just as an almighty heavy metal scream ripped through the room.

Without explaining what was going on, House pressed the transmission button on the walkie talkie and began to talk into it. “Really? Nu Metal? You couldn’t have at least picked some classic heavy metal like Black Sabbath or Metallica?”

The music cut out abruptly and there was a pause. After a few seconds the walkie talkie crackled into life and Wilson’s hesitant voice responded from the other end of the line. “...No?”

House rolled his eyes and turned to Foreman. “Trust a jew to not know good music.” The younger doctor stared at him, completely perplexed. House ignored him and went back to addressing the walkie talkie. “Also, if you were trying to convey a particular message I fail to see how ‘let the bodies hit the floor’ is relevant to an MRI scan.”

Without warning Foreman gripped House’s arm and tugged him urgently. House looked up, irritated. “Can’t you see I’m talking here, and who said you could touch me?”

Foreman pointed at the window to the MRI room. “The patient just tried to climb out of the MRI machine and collapsed on the floor,” he exclaimed, releasing House’s arm and rushing out to help him.

House watched him idly and sighed as Wilson’s voice crackled into the room once more. “You were saying?”

House looked down at the walkie talkie, realising he was still holding in the transmission button and glared. “Shut up,” he clipped, throwing the walkie talkie onto the desk and standing up to press the emergency button on the wall.

 

* * *

 

The door of the clinic waiting room flew open and House came swaggering in, clad in sunglasses holding his boombox on his shoulder. Music streamed from it, earning the attention of several patients waiting to be seen. They all stared at him questioningly as he traversed his way through the room, nodding his head to the beat. When he got closer to the nurses station a few staff members looked over at him and rolled their eyes. By now most of the hospital was accustomed to House’s shenanigans and knew better than to question it unless they wanted a lecture about minding their own business. House ignored all of them, stopping only to address one of the nurses out of necessity.  
  
“Hey, which room is Dr. Wilson in,” he asked a male nurse who was pushing a cart full of blood samples past the front desk.

The nurse paused and shot him a weary side-glance. “He’s in examination room three.”

House lifted the hand holding his cane and saluted the nurse with two fingers before proceeding onwards.

In the examination room Wilson was tending to a woman with a leg injury and was totally unaware of the disruption happening outside. He gently lifted the woman up onto the bed and helped her position herself for a look over.

“Ow,” the patient moaned as Wilson laid her down flat on the examination bed. After she was down he gently pressed his hand on her calf and she hissed in pain.

He pursed his lips with concern and picked up the chart sitting on the bed next to her. “So how hard did you actually fall?”

The patient grit her teeth together and squirmed on the bed. “Pretty hard, I was tackled by my uncle during a family football game.”

Wilson nodded and skimmed over the file. “I’d like to do an x-ray just to be sure you haven’t fractured anything, but since you were able to walk in here I’m fairly certain you’ve just sprained your calf muscle. A few days bed rest and some hot and cold compresses should reduce the swelling and get you back to playing football in no time.”

He picked up the prescription pad on the desk and began filling out a script of panadeine tablets. “I’m going to prescribe you some panadeine for the pain as well, just in case it becomes too-” he cut himself short and snapped his head up as the door of the examination room burst open and House walked in, pointing at Wilson and singing extremely loudly so that everyone in the vicinity could hear him.  
  
“ _Doctor doctor, gimme the news, I got a bad case of lovin' you. No pill's gonna cure my ill, I got a bad case of lovin' you!_ ” He sang as the music blared, staring directly into Wilson’s widened eyes.

It took a few seconds for Wilson to get his bearings but when he did his expression immediately turned to a frown. “House, I’m with a patient.”

House stopped singing and lowered his sunglasses. “I’m declaring my love for you, don’t you think a broken leg can wait?”

Wilson rolled his eyes and went back to the prescription he was writing.

“I thought it was just a sprained calf,” the patient said from the bed, looking completely nonplussed.

“It could be a break, we won’t know until we do the x-ray,” Wilson responded as he scribbled down the dosage of panadeine. “But like I said, I think you’re fine.”

House turned off his boombox and carefully placed it on the ground. “You’ve really mastered the art of ignoring me.”

“It is a skill,” Wilson said, spinning around in his chair, standing up and handing the patient her script as well as a referral to radiology. “I’ll get one of the nurses to fetch a wheelchair for you and take you down to the radiology department. Once you’ve had the x-ray done I’ll see you again and let you know the results.”

“Uh, thank you,” the woman replied, looking between Wilson and House.

Wilson smiled at her and turned away. Without making eye contact with House he exited the examination room and walked up to the nurses station to alert one of the staff that his patient needed a wheelchair. When he was finished speaking to the nurse on reception he turned around and came face-to-face with House who looked highly irritated.

“I don’t even get the usual mommying?” He prompted, waving his cane in Wilson’s face.

Wilson shook his head exasperatedly. “You don’t deserve it. _Bad Case of Loving You_ is so cliche, it doesn’t even warrant acknowledgement,” he rebuffed, walking past House to pick up his next case.

House followed him. “It’s not the words themselves but the intent behind them that matters,” he mused, struggling to keep pace with his friend who was obviously attempting to outrun him.

Wilson stopped in front of the file shelf and pulled one down from his section of scheduled patients. “And what exactly was your intent,” he idly inquired as he opened the file. His question was met with silence and when he didn’t get a verbal response he looked up to see House smirking at him. Before Wilson could ask what he was thinking, House turned and began limping away, presumably to examination room three to retrieve his boombox. Wilson watched on wordlessly, wondering what House was trying to communicate to him.

 

* * *

 

It was late at night and House was packing up for the evening. The team had been running a particularly difficult case that day which had required all hands on deck from morning until present, and to say that he was exhausted would have been an understatement. Cameron, Chase and Foreman had already packed up and left, so he was now alone in the quiet of the late night hospital shift as he prepared to go home. He glanced out the window and saw the moon hanging high in the sky, beaming down brightly on the adjoining balcony that connected his office to Wilson’s. For such a hectic day, it was a strangely calm night. He turned back to his desk and began shoving personal items into his backpack. After a few minutes the last of his paraphernalia was packed away and he zipped the bag up, throwing it over his shoulder. One last sweep of the room made sure that he had collected everything he needed and with that he picked up his cane and readied himself to leave.

He made for the door, and was happy to finally be heading home after such a strenuous day; but even in his restless state the part of his mind which was always analysing his surroundings stopped him in his tracks. A quick glance towards his conference room confirmed what he had almost missed. There, on the conference table was a small wooden box that he had never seen before. Curious, he dropped his backpack on one of he armchairs in his office and walked through to the table to investigate. When he got closer he noted the colour and faint perfume of the wood. From what he could discern it must have been made of pine and was impeccably polished and lacquered. House leant his cane against the table and picked up the box, running his hands over the smoothly finished pinewood. Without wasting any more time he lifted the lid to see what was inside.

Opening the box revealed a small teddy bear holding a love heart. It was attached to a mechanism and slowly twirled in a circle as a tinkling rendition of _Just The Way You Are_ by Billy Joel played in the background. In the bottom of the box was a note that was folded in half, and it only took a second for House to realise that it had been written on one of the papers from Wilson’s personalised stationery. He pulled the note out and placed the box back on the table, letting the song play out as he examined the paper in his hand.

“This is as close to _Leave a Tender Moment Alone_ as I’m going to get,” the note read. It was short and concise, and unmistakably Wilson. House smirked and snapped the music box shut before picking it up along with his cane and returning to his backpack.

“Wilson, you cheeseball,” he said to himself as he slid his backpack back on and continued out of the office.

 

* * *

 

Wilson pulled out his lavender shirt and placed it on the bed next to his trousers. He was organising his outfit for the next day so he didn’t have to worry about colour matching in the morning, and had already changed out of his day clothes. Now comfortable in his baggiest shirt and old tracksuit pants, he idly wondered to himself how he got through the day wearing these stupid dress shirts and suit pants. Turning away, he headed back over to his wardrobe and started looking through his tie collection for the perfect accompaniment.

As he was trying to decide which tie would be the best fit, his ears were greeted with the sound of the piano being played in the next room. Curious, Wilson abandoned his tie picking and walked out into the lounge. There sat House at the piano, skillfully fingering the keys in a melody Wilson immediately recognised as _True Colours_ . It wasn’t House’s usual style, but it was beautiful nonetheless. Wilson leaned himself against the doorframe and soaked in the music filling the room. He began to lose himself in the soft refrain, and it almost startled him when House’s voice joined the notes floating from the piano.  
  
“ _I see your true colors shining through. I see your true colors and that's why I love you. So don't be afraid to let them show, your true colors true colors are beautiful like a rainbow_ ,” he sung softly, his voice flowing and lilting with the chord progression.

Of course Wilson knew that House could play the piano at an almost professional level, but it wasn’t often that he actually got to hear him do so. Unlike his other instruments, House usually reserved the piano for when he was completely alone. It had always been like that and Wilson had never questioned it. On the off chance that he did get to hear him play, it was a always a pleasant surprise and this time was no exception.

Wilson opened his eyes and noticed that House was now staring at him as he played. The heat rose in his cheeks. It felt like he was interrupting something private, but also like the interruption was being invited. He decided to take his chances and get closer, walking forward and stopping next to the piano. House continued playing and singing, staring deeply into Wilson’s eyes the entire time. The music flowed and hypnotised Wilson in a way he couldn’t have articulated if anybody ever asked. After an interlude that seemed way too short, House finished the last few notes and removed his hands from the keys. The apartment went back to a familiar quiet.

Wilson bent over and tapped one of the ivories with a smile. “I’m glad I bought this,” he remarked as his fingers slid over the keys in a glissando.

“So am I,” House replied, catching Wilson’s hand just before it reached the end of the octave. Wilson looked up at him with a raised eyebrow but didn’t attempt to take his hand back.

House stood up from the piano stool with Wilson’s hand still grasped in his own and walked out so that they were standing face to face. It was silent as Wilson stared up at him with wide, entranced eyes, and when they both leaned in together it just seemed like the natural course of action. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss that lingered for a few moments before they broke apart.

House gently ran his thumb over Wilson’s palm before releasing his hand. “Truce?” He asked, breaking the silence.

Wilson blinked and furrowed his eyebrows together. He was still foggy from the kiss and wasn’t following what House was talking about. “Huh?”

House rolled his eyes. “The little war we have going at work. I think it’s run its course, don’t you?”

Realisation dawned in Wilson’s eyes and he straightened himself up. “Oh, yeah. Truce.” Before anymore could be said, House hissed in pain and his hand shot down to his leg. Wilson jolted back slightly in surprise as he watched his friend grip his thigh. “Are you okay?”

House looked up at him, his face scrunched up in discomfort. “Yeah. Wanna go lay down in bed?” He never said it, but his eyes silently asked for Wilson to carry him to the bedroom.

Wilson smiled and put his arm under House’s to support him. Carefully, he began guiding them in the direction of House’s bedroom. “That sounds like music to my ears,” he replied, earning a groan from House which had nothing to do with his leg.

  
  
**~Fin~**

This has nothing to do with anything but I made some sims of House and Wilson and thought I'd include some pictures of them.  I'd like to think I did a fairly decent job with their likeness. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/150880929@N04/26084543497/in/dateposted-public/)

**Author's Note:**

> Below is a comprehensive list of all the songs referenced within this fic, both those used as plot devices and those that are simply mentioned. The songs are listed in order of their appearance within the story. I also took the liberty of including different versions of the last two songs to reflect the way they are played/portrayed within the context of the narrative. 
> 
> As an aside, despite the way that some of the songs are described in the text, I actually like all the songs that are listed. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy listening to this list either as you read or after you have finished the story!
> 
> Amber***
> 
>    
>  **Songs Used in The Great Music War:**
> 
>   * Song 1: [ Wuthering Heights ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BW3gKKiTvjs) by Kate Bush
>   * Song 2: [Not If You Were The Last Junkie On Earth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APrpB-i4d_E) by The Dandy Warhols
>   * Song 3: [Oh, Pretty Woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssXAkg0bV6o) by Roy Orbison 
>   * Song 4: [Everybody Hurts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rOiW_xY-kc) by R.E.M
>   * Song 5: [Should I Stay or Should I Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BN1WwnEDWAM) by The Clash
>   * Song 6: [What's New Pussycat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ga3I5DTIA-E) by Tom Jones
>   * Song 7: [Stayin' Alive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_izvAbhExY) by The Bee Gees
>   * Song 8: [Bodies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=04F4xlWSFh0) by Drowning Pool
>   * Song 9: [Bad Case of Loving You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7z9DwMKvqcc) by Robert Palmer
>   * Song 10: [Just The Way You Are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaA3YZ6QdJU) by Billy Joel
> [Just The Way You Are - Music Box Version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QyuQBgAQkQ)
>   * Song 11: [True Colours](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPn0KFlbqX8) by Cyndi Lauper
> [True Colours Piano Version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CQoObtJ4K8s) By Tom Odell 
> 
> [True Colours Piano Instrumental](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oL5bEswJEZ8)
> 
> 

> 
> **Songs Mentioned but Not Used Within the Story:**
> 
>   * Song 1: [Leave a Tender Moment Alone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JHpIC4Kk0MU) by Billy Joel
>   * Song 2: [One](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IHaVe4lUTLY) from the play _A Chorus Line_
>   * Song 3: [Barbie Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyhrYis509A) by Aqua
> 



End file.
